


A Backwards Proposal

by HoloXam



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crack, Idiots in Love, M/M, One thousand years of miscommunication, The Arrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-25 14:44:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13836954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoloXam/pseuds/HoloXam
Summary: On Monday, Crowley got himself as drunk as he possibly could, and screamed long and high into the void. He passed out around noon on Tuesday. On Thursday, Crowley threw himself out of the window in his living room, as he took the latter option of fight or flight very literally.An encounter with a bride-to-be puts an idea in Aziraphale's head. Crowley doesn't react very well.





	1. I can't believe you thought this was implied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DwarvenBeardSpores](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Предложение с конца](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17081744) by [Anne_Boleyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anne_Boleyn/pseuds/Anne_Boleyn)



> This was loosely based on [this post](https://bettergroomedwings.tumblr.com/post/166652587410/who-do-you-think-is-the-one-to-confess-their) and [this post](https://maniacalmole.tumblr.com/post/167743826082) and a very silly conversation. Credit for half the plot and some wonderful insults goes to DwarvenBeardSpores. I hope you like it, friend!

On Wednesday, Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Part-Time Rare Book-Dealer, Angel of the Lord, and Epitome of Knowledge, Reason and Empathy, was getting a manicure that got him thinking. Or, it wasn’t the actual manicure that got him thinking, but rather the conversational topic he indulged in with the manicurist.

Dinah, as her name was, had taken a very large and shining diamond ring off her finger before she went to work on Aziraphale’s hands, and she had made a big show out of it.

“It’s a nice ring,” he told her. The young woman beamed.

“I’m getting married!” she exclaimed, and her coworkers groaned in a way that Aziraphale found slightly impolite.

He congratulated her on the engagement and they chatted loosely about this and that, wedding dresses, wedding vows, wedding rings. Aziraphale, who felt prematurely fed up with white lace and fondant, even if he was not even to attend the wedding, smiled politely. Dinah was the best manicurist on the block, and he was determined to stay on her good side.

Before he went home, he chatted a bit with Jo, another manicurist, who was having a smoking break outside the salon.

“You must’ve been bored out of your skull in there, Mr. Fell,” she said and smiled conspiratorially at him. Aziraphale shrugged and smiled back at her. “A bachelor such as yourself can’t be very interested in flower girls or wedding rings.”

Aziraphale looked at his hands and frowned. It was true that he had not previously given it much thought, and yet…

“Something wrong with the manicure?” Jo asked, and took his hand for inspection.

“No, no, Miss Dinah - soon to be Mrs. Dinah, I suppose - works wonders,” he said and pulled his hand away. “No, it was just - well, never mind. I shall be off. Don’t be too hard on the dear girl,” he added with a wink, as he began to make his way down the street.

“So long, Mr. Fell!” Jo cried after him. Aziraphale stuck his hands in his pockets and turned a corner.

So long, indeed. He spent the rest of the week speculating.

 

* * *

 

On Sunday afternoon, Crowley came over to the bookshop.

The demon seemed a little worked up and distracted, and Aziraphale had to repeat himself, asking gently if Crowley wanted a cup of tea?

It was rather sweet, really, the way he blushed in frustration and stammered something in the affirmative.

Aziraphale went into the kitchenette and put the kettle on. In his head, he went over the conclusions he had made in the last couple of days; it was actually quite silly. The Arrangement had seemed so progressive at the time they had agreed upon it, but things had evolved since then. One could be a lot more open about things like that these days, and now that they both were officially retired… He should just ask. Crowley was probably just waiting for him to do so, the poor boy: It was not that Aziraphale was opposed to it, but everything had always felt so natural, it had never occurred to him that something might be amiss. And, _really,_ Crowley had never said anything _either._

Aziraphale got Crowley’s cup out of the cupboard [1] and poured the tea into it. Now, he wasn’t going to breach the subject right away; Crowley seemed to have something else on his mind entirely, and he even flinched when Aziraphale soothingly brushed their fingers together as he handed him the cup. Crowley clutched the cup and muttered a thank you into it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s eyebrows flew high on his forehead.

“NO!” he said, and looked almost alarmed.

Aziraphale patted him on the shoulder, gave him a concerned look, and sat down with his crosswords again. The bookshop remained silent, except for the nervous rustling of a trouser leg, the sound of tea being sipped and a pencil scribbling words down or across.

Aziraphale smiled.

 

* * *

 

On Monday, Aziraphale passed a jeweler’s window. An obscene display of sexist and heteronormative ads gave him a headache, and he wondered if it really was a good idea to buy into the concept after all. He went home again and thought a great deal about it.

 

* * *

 

On Thursday, Crowley invited him over for dinner.

His neighbor, Crowley explained, who had connections with biodynamic farmers, had provided him with an exquisite piece of lamb, and if Aziraphale would bring the wine and bread, that’d be great. Aziraphale accepted, threw together a whole-grain loaf, and arrived at Crowley’s place in time for a good meal. Crowley was much more relaxed than he had been last time, especially after they opened the second bottle of wine, and Aziraphale figured that whatever had troubled him had sorted itself out.

And so it was that Aziraphale felt comfortable to finally open up to the subject, while they were clearing the table.

“I was wondering why we never got any rings,” he said.

Crowley dropped the plates which shattered violently on the kitchen tiles. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and brought them back together with a wave of his hand.

“I mean, it _does_ seem like the _normal_ thing to do, and - stop now, don’t look at me like that - I know “normal” quite doesn’t fit with your hipster aesthetic, but I figured -”

Aziraphale had to interrupt himself, because suddenly flames rose out of the stove, the tap started to pour steaming water into the sink with a violent pressure, and every light bulb in the room exploded. The smoke alarm went off at a mind-shattering frequency, and all the while Crowley just stood and stared at him, apparently not realising that his kitchen had gone rogue. The fire from the stove spread quickly to the countertop.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelled over the unbearable pitch of the alarm, “Are _you_ doing this?”

When no reaction came, Aziraphale ground his teeth and banished the fire to somewhere else, where it (hopefully) wouldn’t do anyone any harm. He figured that the middle of the Atlantic Ocean should be safe enough. He then went over to the sink and turned the water off, and glared the howling alarm into silence.

“Now - you might want to change your light bulbs, my dear - what was all _that_ about?” Aziraphale asked cautiously.

“HOW CAN YOU EVEN ASK ME THAT!?” Crowley answered, in a high pitched, and rather hostile voice.

Aziraphale huffed.

“Well, if you’re _that_ opposed to rings, you could have just _said_ so, no need to make such a big show out of it,” he said.

Crowley turned slowly towards him, and carefully took off his sunglasses. He folded them, laid them on the countertop, and took a deep breath. Aziraphale crossed his arms and looked pointedly at him.

There was a long silence.

“You,” Crowley said at length. “You absolute _imbecile._ You insensitive, featherbrained, book-hoarding _bastard.”_

Aziraphale sighed and picked up the plates that Crowley was neglecting on the floor, and put them in the dishwasher.

“I seriously can’t believe you! Are you blind? Daft? Generally incapable of simple human interaction?!” Crowley went on. Aziraphale considered pointing out that they strictly speaking never had had any _human_ interaction between the two of them, but Crowley threw his hands up in the air and stalked out of the kitchen. It sounded like he was pacing around in the living room, rambling off more utter nonsense in all caps, and also like he was only just warming up to it.

(“YOU IGNORANT, EMPTY-HEADED, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING, HOLY _TWAT!_ HOW CAN YOU JUST DROP THIS ON ME WITH NO WARNING WHATSOEVER!?”)

Aziraphale dug out his smartphone [2] and fired up his sudoku app. Then he went and leaned on the door frame, waiting patiently for Crowley to come off it, so they could go back to proper conversation and the half filled bottle of wine that still sat on the dinner table. Every once in a while, he sent it a longing glance.

 

* * *

 

“... can’t even _begin_ to comprehend the _nerve_ you’ve got, you ridiculous, exasperating, _INSUFFERABLE_ angel.” Crowley was still going at it. “You come into my _home,_ I  _cook_ for you, and with _no_ further explanation you start _that_ conversation in a manner _so backwards,_ and - and -”

Aziraphale looked at his watch. It had been almost three quarters of an hour since this tirade had begun, and he was wondering vaguely if Crowley would ever tire of his own voice, when the demon suddenly dropped down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands.

Aziraphale put the last nine in his current puzzle and put the phone away. He looked at Crowley for a bit. He was breathing heavily and... sort of shaking. He must have exhausted himself.

“Are you _quite_ finished, my dear?” Aziraphale asked and stepped closer to him.

Crowley looked up from his hands, and Aziraphale froze. Streaks of silvery tears were coming down Crowley’s cheeks, and his gaze was filled with malice in a way it had not been for decades, _at least._

“Fuck you,” Crowley snarled. He grabbed hold of one of the sofa pillows and swung it at Aziraphale, hitting him on the left side.

“Fuck you, you dull-witted, sadistic arse! I _hate_ you, and I hate what you do to me!” he spat. It was hard to tell if the hoarseness in his voice came out of exhaustion or emotion. Crowley swung the pillow again, knocking Aziraphale on the head with it, but this time Aziraphale caught it and held onto it with great strength. He put some of his angelic stubbornness into wrestling the pillow away from Crowley, and put it down on the floor.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands in his own to shield himself from further pillow-attacks and gave his tear-streaked face a good long look of inspection. What exactly had brought _this_ on? And what was he, _Aziraphale,_ supposed to do about it?

All that was going through his mind was a somewhat fond _silly demon_ (because _really),_ but he felt that saying that _might_ be a tad too inconsequential.

Crowley’s snarling insults trailed off and slowly gave way to more tears and undignified sobs. Aziraphale was not well-accustomed with crying persons (or demons, for that matter) in such close proximity, and would gladly have removed himself from the situation promptly; but this was _Crowley,_ for Heaven’s sake.

He tried to say, “Oh, do stop that,” but that only made it worse.

He frowned, and then carefully let go of Crowley’s hands and drew him into a soft embrace.

“There, there,” he said, as Crowley grabbed a firm hold of his shirt and buried his face in his shoulder. Aziraphale patted him awkwardly on the back.

“Hush now, dear,” he continued, in the hopes that words, if they were said soothingly rather than in mere confusion, would calm Crowley a little. “It is perfectly fine if you don’t want to get the rings.”

It took a moment for Aziraphale to register that Crowley’s hands were quite suddenly wrapped around his throat and squeezing tightly at that. He made a mental note saying that hugs might lead to being strangled by a demon, and should be used with much caution or indeed not at all, before he grabbed a hold of Crowley’s wrists and pried his hands away.

“Now, _really,”_ he said, and looked Crowley sternly in the eye. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“HOW CAN YOU STILL BE TALKING ABOUT THE BLOODY RINGS?” Crowley yelled with renewed energy. “YOU BLOODY RIGHTEOUS STUPID INSUFFERABLE BASTARD! THAT’S LIKE - LIKE INVENTING FISH, WITHOUT BOTHERING WITH SO MUCH AS A BLOODY POND FIRST. YOU CAN’T JUST _DO_ THAT!”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to rebut to that, and would have started what could have been a lecture on Genesis _("You and your incessant animal-allegories, now look, the water was there FIRST-"),_ if Crowley had not turned into a snake before his eyes and slid out of his grip and across the floor with great speed.

Aziraphale frowned, and when the snake reached the window, Crowley regained his familiar shape, tore the window open and threw himself out of it. As soon as he was outside, he brought his wings out and took off, leaving Aziraphale behind.

Aziraphale looked after him and folded his arms across his chest.

“That seemed like a profound overreaction,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 Of course Crowley had his own cup at Aziraphale’s. It was only natural. It had a little snake for a handle.[return to text]

2 He had gotten around to acquiring one just a couple of months earlier. It served the sole purpose of letting him avoid awkward eye contact with strangers on public transportation.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _To be continued..._


	2. I can't believe you never knew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear me, what a wonderful reception for the first chapter! <3 <3 I hope the rest manages to live up to the hype. 
> 
> DwarvenBeardSpores chose [Crowley's cup](https://goo.gl/images/pDvJvu) ;D

On Wednesday, Anthony J. Crowley, an Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards, Serpent of Eden, Tempter of Woman- and Mankind Alike, Flash Bastard and Regular Speed Demon, stared into empty space.

It was not so much a vast vacuum as it was the muffled air below his bedroom ceiling, but that hardly mattered. The thing was, it was just one of those days. There had been rather more than a few of them in the last month, and Crowley knew only two ways of how to deal with them: He could drink until he passed out, or he could stare aimlessly into the void. Usually, he would alternate between methods, or do both things at once. The opportunities were really not that endless, but he would work with what he had. Which, all in all, wasn’t a lot, he mused, as he lit another cigarette and traced the patterns in the ceiling with his eyes for the hundredth time that afternoon.

It was all the angel’s fault, of course. Or, it probably wasn’t his _fault,_ per se, but more accurately his advantages that were the problem.

Crowley went through his usual affirmation[1], the wording of which had been consistent for at least 400 years, and had only been adapted to more common phrases by mere accident.

“You are a demon,” he started tiredly. “You should sin, like you were supposed to. If you got what you wanted, you would lose envy, wrath and desire. You should never be good, and that’s not bad. Being a good example is bad. And vice versa. Yada yada, fuck me sideways.” He trailed off into a string of curses.

It was no use. He was beyond repair, he’d got it bad, he was, well, head over heels. Had been for a while.

He took a long drag from the cigarette and went over the cracks and patterns in the ceiling once more.

 

* * *

 

On Sunday afternoon, he couldn’t take it anymore. He finally got out of bed and drove to Soho. Never mind that he had these, er, well, _feelings_. He had named them for himself once, in a drunken stupor in the late 1790’s, and that had been one time too many, thank you very much.

But feelings they were, warm, fuzzy, agonizing feelings, that made him want to do… _Things._

Sometimes they seemed to cool down a bit, and he could live for decades without being troubled by them. But then, suddenly, the sun would shine on the angel’s hair, or a certain smell would remind Crowley of this or that sunset in Rome with a flagon of wine, or maybe they would just look each other in the eye, and Crowley’s chest would constrict, and he would wish he could die young like a tragic romantic poet or a young woman who had happened to be caught in a rainstorm once, and whose delicate condition just wouldn’t let her live [2]. Crowley felt that such an end would have been proper, with such unrequited lo-… unrequited _feelings_ disrupting his existence.

 

It was probably not the first time Aziraphale asked, because he had that stern, impatient look on his face when he said,

“Do you want a cup of tea, perhaps?”

Crowley felt himself blabber incomprehensibly, and heat rose in his cheeks. _Why am I like this?_ he thought, and watched Aziraphale retreat into the back room.

Aziraphale was magnificent, it was undeniable; he radiated warmth and comfort, and even if he looked soft and unfashionable, there was a core of steel beneath the rumpled exterior. He had a sense of humor so crisp and sarcastic that he could utter the most blasphemous sentiments, and people would still assume he was being polite, but Crowley could always detect the venom lacing the words[3]. And he was handsome; oh bloody someone, was he handsome; strong jaw, dark, hypnotising eyes, wild hair, and those _lips…_

Crowley stopped.

“Don't go there,” he said miserably to himself, “Just don’t.”

Aziraphale reentered the room and handed Crowley his cup of tea. Their fingers brushed together, and Crowley felt electric jolts travel from his fingertips throughout his whole body. He clutched the cup and stared down into the steaming contents; his mind was racing madly, and he tried to calm himself. This was what bodies _did,_ they came into contact with each other every now and then. It didn't _mean_ anything, he should not make such a big deal out of it. Really. _Help._

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley sat up straight in alarm.

“NO!” he gasped, and sloshed a few drops of tea onto himself. Aziraphale shot him a knowing look and squeezed his shoulder, and Crowley felt himself start to melt completely against that warm hand - _oh, don’t stop, please, have SOME mercy_ \- but Aziraphale let go of him and sat down with his crosswords.

Crowley sat in silence for the rest of the afternoon and listened to the sound of his own heartbeat hammering away in his ears.

 

* * *

 

On Monday, Crowley got himself as drunk as he possibly could, and screamed long and high into the void. He passed out around noon on Tuesday.

 

* * *

 

On Thursday, Crowley threw himself out of the window in his living room, as he took the latter option of fight or flight very literally.

He sped eastwards over the London rooftops, and as he did so, the alarms that had been going off on full volume in his head for the better part of an hour slowly quieted down to a faint ringing in his ears. He landed on top of Tower Bridge and stared into the river for a while, muttering short phrases like “unbelievable,” or “what the actual fucking fuck,” or, on one occasion, “how is this happening to me.”

He decided that the best course of action for the time being was to get back to being drunk as fast as possible, if he were to understand the implications of what had just happened without a severe mental breakdown.

One thing was to spend a couple of thousand years pining painfully for your business partner, drowning and burying your sorrows with wine and work and liquor, another and altogether much worse thing was realising that all that time spent _suffering_ had been completely in vain.

Aziraphale apparently considered them to have already tied the knot, and was fine.

Crowley floated down to street level and went into the first pub he came across.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 This was a habit he had picked from a support group he had had to attend as part of a sentence of community service he had gotten for accidentally helping an old lady across the street. Hell did not look mildly upon such behaviour. [return to text]

2 Crowley’s copy of Wuthering Heights was well-read and falling apart. His John Keats Odes were practically just scraps of paper.[return to text]

3 Unless they were directed at Crowley himself. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _To be concluded..._


	3. I just can't believe you, love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last installment. I hope you enjoy!

Two weeks came and went. On the Friday that marked the beginning of the third week since the fallout, Aziraphale began to worry about Crowley.

That night, he had waited on the white leather sofa for a couple of hours, but had then decided that if Crowley _was_ to return home, he _probably_ wouldn’t be in a mood (or a condition) for talking. It was probably best to give him some space, and let him sort out himself out. So Aziraphale had done just that and gone home. He had things to do anyway [1].

But two _weeks?_ It seemed to be plenty of time to get whatever frustration he might have had out of his system; Crowley should have shown up by now. Hopefully, nothing had happened to him; that would be both inconvenient and boring. Aziraphale swirled in his chair, and put his feet up on the bookshop’s counter.

The terms of the Arrangement had been clear, he thought. Maybe the dear demon was just unfathomably slow on the uptake. But that just couldn’t be _true:_ Crowley had spent the last century adapting to the rapidly changing human customs, and was always informed and up to date on fashion, politics and technology. Aziraphale had no idea why he bothered, but it was always good to have such a strong link to the present, even if said link had a tendency towards mild hysteria at the best of times.

And it wasn’t as if Aziraphale didn’t _know_ that Crowley _lo-_

The bell chimed and interrupted his thoughts. Aziraphale turned his head towards the door, but kept his feet on the counter.

“We’re clos- oh, there you are. About time, too,” he said, and ran his eyes over the intruder. Crowley closed the door behind him and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. His shoulders were drawn up around his ears, and it ruined the air of sleek nonchalance he obviously tried to express with the spotless suit and the slicked back hair. He scowled at Aziraphale.

“Well, do come in. _I_ am not going to attack with the furniture,” Aziraphale said, and leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t help but smiling.

Crowley walked up to the counter and leaned casually on it, and let his gaze run over the bookshelves. His coordination seemed a little off.

“Are you _still_ drunk?” Aziraphale asked.

“No. Yes. A little,” said Crowley and shrugged. “I did mean to sober up, but if I do I might change my mind.”

“Change your mind about what?”

Crowley paused. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, laced his fingers together, pulled them apart, and ran them through his hair.

“You think we’re together?” he said, and glanced down at Aziraphale. “Like, together-together?”

Aziraphale dragged his hands across his face. Okay, that demon was seriously dense.

Crowley shifted nervously.

“Let me put it in a way you might comprehend,” Aziraphale said. “Yes we are, you stupid fuck.”

“How come _I_ don’t know, then?!” Crowley pulled his glasses off and waved them around.

“Well, you’re obviously dumb as a doorknob, but I’ve learned to live with that.”

“It has been a full millennium, and we haven’t even held bloody hands!”

 _“Dude,”_ Aziraphale said and tasted the word. It was wonderfully improper. “You flinch when I touch as much as your fingertips. And I _did_ hold your hand back in lower Tadfield. So maybe if you come off of your hysterical high horse and tell me what you actually _want,_ then I shall gladly be the one to consummate this unholy union. If you catch my drift.”

Crowley blushed scarlet. He fidgeted terribly, and swallowed a couple of times.

“Well, let’s go get the bloody rings, then,” he finally growled.

Aziraphale got up and walked around the counter. He took Crowley’s wandering hands in his own and smiled at him. Crowley closed his eyes and seemed to struggle a bit. 

“We could also have a proper church ceremony. It’s legal nowadays for two man-shaped beings to get hitched by a preacher, I hear.” He smirked. Crowley's eyes shot wide open, and he stared at Aziraphale in horror.

“You’re insane,” he managed. “Full on bonkers. What am I going to _do_ with you?”

“Oh, you know,” said Aziraphale. “I can think of a thing or two.”

 

 

_**The End** _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 He had not, actually, but he could think something up very quickly, should anyone ask. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THAT'S HOW IT WENT, GUYS
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! The support for this has been absolutely wonderful, I am totally blown away!  
> Stay awesome!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Backwards Proposal (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14036091) by [darlingsweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingsweet/pseuds/darlingsweet)




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